


Close to Heart

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Demons, Reapers, Seizures, Thorns of Death, Ties & Cravats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William is <i>frigid</i>, sure, but it takes a far deeper revelation than that for Grell to understand why the man covers so much of his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Southern_Breeze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Breeze/gifts), [into_the_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/into_the_abyss/gifts).



> [Inspired by/based on this post!](http://shinigami-mistress.tumblr.com/post/127118214333/theory-william-has-a-mild-case-of-the-thorns) So I guess it belongs to [Southern_Breeze](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Breeze) and/or [Into_the_abyss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/into_the_abyss)? Kudos to you two for being great thinkers of our time.

William was being difficult again. He was as deflective of her advances as ever, as cold and relentless as ever; there was nothing new there. But the current argument was new – not paperwork, nor reap schedules, nor even office cruelty. Today it was clothes.

Not hers.

Grell couldn't understand it. When they'd been juniors he hadn't cared about his body; although he had never exactly flaunted himself – certainly not exposed himself so readily as she had, nor been keen to let her look at him – William had never been shy. Beautiful and cold and as good-looking shirtless as he was in full sharp suits, although she hadn't paid him much attention back then. She should have, Grell knew, because the exam had been the last time that she had been offered such a view.

It could be image now, she supposed; he hadn't been a supervisor then, barely known and certainly not held in any degree of respect. And they hadn't had any opportunity to share rooms or company so much, either. Or perhaps it was her own attitude toward him – it would be difficult to blame Will for wanting to hide himself to avoid her teasing flirtations or honest appreciation of his form. It could be a combination of the two or something else entirely. But the fact remained that the issue had reached ridiculous proportions, far beyond him constantly bearing enough clothes to be considered not only modest but ready for a full-scale business meeting at all times. No. It was much worse.

William had turned up for work wearing a _cravat_.

It was black, at least, but he didn't even seem able to wear it correctly – it sat too high on his neck, bandaging his whole throat. The front of his shirt seemed far too blank without the usual plain tie, and cravats hadn't been in fashion for – well – too long. Even more so amongst the reaper population than that of the mortals. Grell almost wept when she laid eyes upon it. Asking frantic questions grounded in a mixture of worry and bereavement resulted in her being brushed off, and attempting in a desperate sleight to steal the awful thing from his neck resulted in being hit, hard. _It's perfectly within the dress-code,_ he snapped. _Go and fix your own attire before you start micromanaging mine._

But it was _hideous_.

Perhaps the fact that midsummer was fast approaching added to the sheer lunacy of the choice. Had it been a cold month she could have perhaps made an exception to the aesthetic and understood (he'd had the sense to wear a scarf over winter; another joyless black article, but more of an accessory than she'd seen him don for decades) – but it wasn't. Where every other reaper in the country was attempting to get away with undone buttons and loose clothes, William covered up like some sort of backwards nun – having read the literature regarding chastity but missed the memo on formal robes. He didn't even take his gloves off whilst doing paperwork. Just _looking_ at him wearing more than three layers of clothes in a stuffy office all day made Grell sweat. How he managed it was an interesting question, but _why_ he persevered was far more important.

If she could figure out why he was so hell-bent on keeping all of those clothes on, she'd quite possibly be able to get him to take them off.

* * * 

It had been two weeks and William showed no signs of losing the cravat.

Grell was beginning to despair. What if he had decided through some stubborn perversion to adopt it as some sort of ill-informed conception of _style_? What if he retained it for the next few _years_? Nobody else had hassled him about it (other reapers tended to avoid their supervisor's ire, for some reason) so she was fighting a one woman battle against the item now. A one woman battle which was being lost. No clear end was in sight. 

That was before a notification of an upcoming paired reap with the man himself appeared – immensely good news both for the upcoming opportunity to spend time with him again, always enjoyable, and to actually have a conversation about the damned monstrosity around his neck. Could reason prevail where her usual charms have failed? She hoped so. William never seemed to like listening to her opinions, but usually heeded them when it mattered. It was one of his better points.

The outing fell on a Tuesday – it was mercifully overcast, but the mugginess remained. Grell found herself forced to radically edit her look to avoid actually sweating her way through her clothes; braces replaced her waistcoat and her trousers miraculously lost a foot in length. When asked, she informed people haughtily that _I'm a trend-setter, love_ and also more fashionable than all of them combined – but in reality it was still too warm, and her torso felt indecently exposed. William showed up exactly sixty seconds early with his cravat and full jacket, as if he was going out to a dinner do instead of a grimy job involving demons and blood and death. 

“Really,” she muttered, feeling her lip curl. “If we're going to been seen together, you could at least make an effort, love.”

William scowled at her and then rolled his eyes. “Honestly. Take your mind off my clothes for half an hour – thirty minutes, Grell, that's all I ask – and get on with this job. I will not have you embarrassing me again.”

Grell snorted, but didn't bother to retaliate. The reap was anticipated to be tough, and he was right; it wouldn't do to be too distracted. This could have been easily avoided if only he _hadn't worn the cravat_.

They jumped through together, appearing immediately on either side of a mangy bed. The room was not quite dark – although the curtains were drawn, lamps off, the summer light wormed its way through the curtains and warmed the squalor of the room. It stank of decay, and the slight figure buried under the covers was twitching.

“He's burning up,” William murmured. “It won't be long.”

The boy's name was Dan Grey, according to their files, and tuberculosis was doing him in. His family was poor and already mourning, and his soul would be deeply tempered by the disease – making him an excellent target for demons.

Ten minutes passed; five left, now. Grell decided to make use of the time. “Will...” she started, delicately. “If I were to give you a tiny little smidgen of fashion advice, would you-”

The door clicked open, and the first demon poked its nose into the room.

It was only a scavenger – a little creature about the size of a child, all long wispy fingers and oversized mouth. When its eyes followed its nose they widened on sight of the reapers – Grell waved her scythe at it for effect – and there was a barely audible, “Oh, sorry, right...” before it retracted itself back around the door. Will glared after it.

“We should have-”

This was the point at which the second and third demons, both rather larger and more prepared, burst in through the window.

Being sprayed with broken glass was never ideal, but equally very rarely fatal to shinigami and served as enough of a warning for both reapers to ready their scythes and meet the assault head on. The attackers wore human forms, dead-eyed and fast, and through unspoken agreement Grell took the left and William the right. Less than five minutes to kill before the soul would be lost, unless multitasking could occur. Multitasking was invariably awful.

Slashing at her demon forced him to flinch backward, but then he swung back around in an undercut that winded her. There was no time to check Will's safety, or to keep an eye on the dying boy – the demon lunged at the same instant she did, and to her surprise he clapped his hands to either side of her blade, managing only a little unsteadily to hold it still, roaring before his forehead. The effort made his hands shake, sending tremors down the scythe – Grell forced it forward even as he pushed back, snarling, and they both managed to ignore a shout and subsequent crash from somewhere across the room. There was nothing else in the world than the reaper, her weapon and this deplorable creature.

“Give's the soul,” the demon hissed, as though he had any aspect of advantage. “Give's the soul and nobody'll die.”

She laughed at it, gaining an inch or two. “Aside from our mutual friend on the bed, right? I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you're no Adonis! There's just no motive for me to let something so tasteless _live_.” Hauling the chainsaw backward pulled the demon toward her; kicking him in the midriff sent him reeling back, only to rebound without injury. She leaped at him again, and would have managed a clean beheading if there hadn't been a shout of _Grell!_ from behind her and a sudden clip of shears right in front of her eyes, slicing through Grey's soul's bid for freedom.

This was enough to make Grell turn, sharply, instinctive indignation meriting a scolding. “That was _too close-_ ”

She found William in the process of driving his scythe through the other demon's skull, the record billowing out loose in front of him, and threw herself toward the reels. _Not this time_.

Slicing through the reels was easy; even enraged as they were, the soul was weak. Neglecting to heed the other demon was a mistake, and she twisted around just in time to receive a heavy punch in her stomach at roughly the same instant as the demon was impaled in much the same manner as the first. The assurance that he was dealt with did not stop the wall from hitting her hard, and she took a moment to sit still and gather herself. Or at least she would have done had she not been disturbed immediately.

“Grell – Grell – Grell – Grell-”

“I'm fine,” she muttered. “Just a little sore; I'm-” _Fine_ , and she was, but William wasn't. 

He sat pressed back against the opposide wall, limbs crumpled beneath him, shaking with horrible spasmodic jerks even as he managed her name over and over again with the urgency of a stuck record. His head was tipped back, face contorted in pain, hands scratching at the ground. A seizure, easily recognised, but reapers didn't get seizures unless they were-

Even though Alan had been dead for some time, sixty years of experience didn't dissipate easily. Grell threw herself to her feet, ignoring the flash of pain across her back, and hauled William up into her arms even as she jumped directly through to the medical wing of the Dispatch. The brightness of the lights stung and pair jumping that far snatched the breath from her, so when Will began suddenly to struggle violently and then jumped them somewhere else she couldn't stop him. He was heavy, nowhere near Alan's fragility, and they came through on the ground.

Nothing existed that could soothe attacks; Grell knew that. They had to be left alone to run their course, so she looked away – both because she didn't want to see it and because she doubted that Will wanted to be watched. He was breathing now, hard fast haggard breaths, and then suddenly went quiet. Not a bad attack. The short, violent sort, like Alan hadn't had since the first few months. The sort that had only became worse the longer they'd been left.

William sucked in a breath behind her and released it in a slow cloud, half relief and half misery and all too familiar. Grell continued gazing straight ahead, pulling one knee up to her chin as she took in the setting. It was a garden – a patio, really – all stone slabs and low walls and a low stone birdbath, upon the lip of which a stone pigeon sat. The pigeon put its head on one side and stared at her for a moment before it made what appeared to be an agonising decision and lifted off, spiralling away. Not a stone pigeon. A real pigeon, the only sign of life in the area.

When she did look back Will had the cravat in his hands, playing it between his gloves – a victory staled by the fact that she could now see the dark blotches pooled at his throat, the creeping spread of the inky barbed fingers that sat turgid in his veins. 

“Is this your home?” she asked, softly, ignoring the mammoth on the patio. William's eyes were far away, but he nodded – and then without premise stood, still distracted, and moved himself to a low stone bench that disguised against the wall. Only then did he look at her – a little disapprovingly, a faint frown on his brow suggesting that he didn't know why she was still there.

A silence grew before he asked – in a voice of flat calm – “Could you bring me a glass of water? Third door to the right, down the corridor.” He motioned toward the house. Grell hesitated.

“Are you sure that you ought to be left on your o...” The resultant glare told her the answer to that question and then some. _Right_. He wanted to be left alone to suffer in silence. Of course he did. Stubborn, stolid and as unwilling to accept help as Alan had been. Grell stood, considered him for a moment, and then obeyed the direction.

The interior was cool and silent and rather lacking character; the stone tile trend continued indoors, but the walls were white and bare of furnishings. Third to the right. Right. She pushed it open – soft, soundless – and found herself in a small kitchen. Nothing seemed out of sorts, but the silence made her uneasy. The low lighting didn't help either – there seemed no point in turning up the lamps, but the day was overcast and ambient lighting could only do so much at the best of times. A cobweb stretched above the window, looking out over a small and unkempt lawn.

Where did he keep mugs? The first cupboard she opened appeared to fulfil a pantry function, although it seemed scarcely used. All of the packets had faded to illegible, and there were a lot of jam jars, untouched. But then again he did eat at work quite often, didn't he? The amount of overtime that he took on usually forced him home late, so perhaps it was just easier not to cook. The next cupboard was the one that she needed, but its contents made her heart stop.

William owned one mug. He also owned one plate, one bowl, a single glass, a stand-alone dish that she presumed was for baking. Everything was isolated and alone, stacked perfectly neatly as though such singularity is the norm. 

Grell wondered morbidly what happened when he dropped things.

But – she wasn't here to pry. The mug fitted well in her palm and although the tap took a moment to start it did eventually gush clear, clean water. Cool, colder than the air. How could everywhere else seem so sweltering whilst it mimicked autumn in here? She left quickly, any trace of curiosity killed by the dead air and soundless disquiet. Will was exactly where she had left him, retying the cravat into another sensible knot. He took the water with a nod, but only sipped it before setting it aside.

“Thank you,” he said, with very little inflection, and when Grell took a seat beside him he pulled a rather affronted face. “Honestly – you needn't stay.”

“I want to.” A thousand dramatic monologues lost themselves in her mouth, put to rest by the severity of the situation. He had the Thorns. “I want to help you, Will.”

“You can't.” He shook his head, glaring at her still. “The best thing that you can do for me is never to bring this up again. And ceasing your harassment of me at work would be nice, too, if that's not to much to ask.”

“A thousand souls. That was Eric's measure, wasn't it?”

This was clearly a rebuke that he had prepared for already, but something odd affected his tone in delivery. “Eric was chasing a fantasy. A thousand pure souls, Grell – _pure_. No woman taken by his scythe would have fit the criteria even had he captured a thousand.”

“What do you mean?” Grell frowned at him, uncertain. “Surely the best judge of a soul's purity is a reaper. The only judge.”

William shook his head, pushing his glasses up his nose. It was such a tiny motion, so natural to him, and once he seemed to realise that she couldn't reach the conclusion on her own he snapped, “Children, Grell. Newborns, most likely. I couldn't-”

“Don't say that you couldn't ask that of me,” she hissed. “I would do – anything. If-”

“I was going to say couldn't let you,” William interjected, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Wouldn't let you, in fact. You've done enough.”

“I've done nothing to help you!” she protested, feeling all familiar grounding disappear abruptly. “I've done nothing but – aggravate you, wind you up like a clockwork toy; that must have made things worse! Why on earth didn't you tell me?”

“Because I didn't want your pity!” The snarl was too loud, too honest, and his face paled immediately even as he put one hand to his mouth and turned his head away, eyes shut. It took him a moment to recover himself enough to glare at her, eyes very accusing. “I didn't want your pity, Grell. Yours or anyone else's. You saw how people coddled Alan, pretended that he was oh so delicate – I couldn't stand that. I'm nowhere near as affected as him, either, and that I do have you to thank. Being partnered with you makes anyone have to quell enough irritation to kill me.”

He was so pale, and in spite of his objections she found that she didn't pity him. Not as she had Alan, who had drowned in his emotions and suffered so greatly for them. William had sourced his problem and dealt with it admirably, and that made him nothing short of commendable. “...When did it happen? Do you know?”

“You remember it as well as I do.”

It took a moment to click. The exam – “This was my fault?”

“No. Not at all. You saved my life, Grell.” But she had lingered on that rooftop, dizzy and lovestruck, whilst he had gone to collect the soul alone. She'd never taken the time to shout at him for how reckless that had been, because she had thought that the situation had been saved.

“What will you do?” It was a stupid question, but all that she could think to ask. “What _can_ you do?” Worry felt uncomfortable on her tongue – she hadn't ever fretted over his well being before. He took care of himself, always.

“I'll survive,” William said, “As I always have done. Please don't concern yourself about it.”

Grell stared at him, put out by how indifferent he seemed to be to the situation. He may as well have been another statue in his stone garden, she thought; in this grey light the difference was not so apparent. His own eyes were on hers, challenging if not aggressive, as steely and disinterested as always. “But – it'll kill you. Even if it's not as bad as Alan's was, eventually it will...”

“Nonsense,” he replied, waving her worry away with one hand. “I'll be fine. After all, one must have feelings to be hurt by the Thorns.”


End file.
